


never tickle a sleeping dragon

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, House Rivalry, M/M, Pazzolivo being canon in every universe, Puppy Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet for the first time on the Platform 9 ¾. Seven years later, they will look back and laugh at how silly schoolboys can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sorting

**Author's Note:**

> I’m in the middle of a writer’s block, so in order to get some of my motivation back, I’m posting this silly thing I wrote sometime last autumn. I never got around to posting it back then, because I wrote it as a stress relief more than anything, but considering I’ve got many more ideas for this universe, I figured I should probably just put it out there and see if others might enjoy it as much as I do.
> 
> A little history lesson: Harry Potter was my first fandom ever and the main reason I started reading fanfiction all those years ago, although I didn’t start writing until a few fandoms later. I rarely read HP fics anymore – and even when I do, I’m extremely picky with what I read – and I’ve never even considered writing some myself, so it was a huge surprise when the Hogwarts AU started taking shape in my head. But what can I say, once the idea was there, I just couldn’t get rid of it.
> 
> The inspiration for this fic came from the fact that according to the Pottermore Sorting Hat (and virtually any other similar quiz), I’m Slytherin while my best friend is Gryffindor. We were talking about how that would work if we were actually at Hogwarts, and for some reason the discussion turned to Italian footballers and what houses they would be in – and we both agreed Pazzolivo would basically be the same as us.
> 
> It’s been a few years since I last read HP, so I apologize in advance if I mess up some details. I’ve put the players in different houses based on how I personally view them – you’re of course welcome to share your own thoughts on the matter! Also, aside from Pazzo and Monto, the players’ ages are all over the place.
> 
> The title comes from J.K. Rowling: _”Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus”_ – “never tickle a sleeping dragon” – is the motto of Hogwarts.

  
  
The first time Giampaolo sees Riccardo, he mistakes him for a girl.  
  
In Giampaolo’s defence, Riccardo is small for his age and his dark curls and wide blue eyes do make him look inarguably girly. The standard Hogwarts robes definitely aren’t helping either. Who wears their robes to King’s Cross, anyways?  
  
Luckily for Giampaolo, he doesn’t have time to talk to this pretty first year “girl” and make an utter fool out of himself before he catches Riccardo’s name in the conversation as the younger boy’s parents are saying their goodbyes.  
  
Riccardo’s mother has tears in her eyes and she pays no mind to Riccardo’s quiet grumbling as she catches him in a suffocating hug. Giampaolo is silently thankful that his parents are muggles and therefore didn’t take him all the way to the platform 9 ¾ – the goodbyes in front of the station had been embarrassing enough.  
  
Girl or no girl, Giampaolo quickly offers to help Riccardo with his luggage, because there’s no way he will be able to carry his huge trunk and owl cage into the train by himself. Never let it be said that Giampaolo’s parents didn’t raise him right.  
  
The trunk is heavy even for the two of them, but with a little help from Riccardo’s father they manage to get it up the stairs and on board the Hogwarts Express. After the last goodbyes from Riccardo’s parents, Giampaolo and Riccardo head to the compartment where Giampaolo left his own things earlier.  
  
“Thanks, you totally saved me.” Riccardo flashes a bright smile at Giampaolo, his too large front teeth looking oddly cute. “I don’t think I caught your name yet?”  
  
“It’s Giampaolo Pazzini – everyone calls me Pazzo, though,” Giampaolo introduces himself with a sheepish smile – there goes his good upbringing: who forgets to introduce themselves?  
  
“Pazzo, as in _madman_? You don’t seem that mad to me.” The corners of Riccardo’s eyes wrinkle when he smiles and he pushes a stray curl behind his ear before offering his hand. “I’m Riccardo Montolivo, it’s my first year.”  
  
“I know,” Giampaolo blurts out and then blushes fiercely. “I mean, I’m second year, and I’m sure I’d remember you if you’d been at Hogwarts last year. There aren’t _that_ many students there.”  
  
A group of Giampaolo’s classmates from Gryffindor join them in the compartment as the train takes off from King’s Cross. Giampaolo reluctantly turns his attention away from his (hopefully) new friend to exchange stories from over the holidays with his old ones.  
  
After animatedly recounting the UEFA Euro final he had attended with his father – which takes far longer than expected because first he needs to explain what football actually is – Giampaolo glances curiously at Riccardo.  
  
The boy has a thick, old-looking book in his lap and his young barn owl is perched on his shoulder, looking half asleep, pecking his ear gently. He’s not reading the book, though; instead, he smiles at Giampaolo when their eyes meet. “I saw the final too. My mom’s German – you should’ve seen her when they won.”  
  
“Who cares about some stupid muggle game?” Cassano asks with a roll of his eyes, looking challengingly from Riccardo to Giampaolo and back. “It’s got nothing on Quidditch.”  
  
“Isn’t Quidditch a bit boring, though? I mean, most of the time it doesn’t even matter how much you score unless you catch the snitch. And it’s not like flying requires that much stamina, either.” Riccardo is smiling at Cassano, fluttering his eyelashes innocently, before he turns back to his book, obviously satisfied with the shocked expression he managed to get out of him.  
  
Giampaolo wants to warn Riccardo that openly criticizing Quidditch is probably the fastest way to get your ass kicked at Hogwarts, but he gets no chance before Cassano huffs and turns his attention to Giampaolo. “You’re trying out for the team, too, aren’t you? All our chasers from last year graduated, so this is our big chance.”  
  
“Sure, I might give it a try,” Giampaolo shrugs, although he highly doubts Captain Gattuso will choose two second years on his team when he surely has a bunch of older, bigger players trying out at the same time.  
  
“Good man,” Cassano says solemnly – Riccardo snorts quietly, most likely at his pretentious tone – “At least you know what the _real_ sport is, unlike the little muggle over there.”  
  
“I wouldn’t be here if I was a muggle,” Riccardo comments dryly without even looking up from his book. Giampaolo coughs loudly to hide his chuckle as Cassano stares at the first year incredulously – he’d obviously expected Riccardo to be at least somewhat scared of him.  
  
“Whatever. C’mon Pazzo, I’ve got my new broomstick in my trunk, let’s go see it.”  
  
Giampaolo has no option but to follow his friends out of the compartment. Riccardo meets his eyes one more time, almost pitying smile on his lips, before Cassano pulls Giampaolo into the corridor and pushes the door closed behind them.  
  
When Giampaolo peeks through the window into the now almost empty compartment, Riccardo is already immersed in his book, petting his owl with one hand while the other turns the well-worn pages carefully.  
  
  
  
  
  
Giampaolo decides immediately that the sorting ceremony is much more enjoyable when he’s not one of the poor first years standing at the front of the Great Hall listening to the sorting hat’s song.  
  
He still remembers how terrifying it had been, sitting down in front of the entire school and listening to the hat’s voice inside his head. For Giampaolo Gryffindor had been the obvious destination, though, so he’d been lucky enough to get out of the chair before even a minute had passed.  
  
It had taken almost ten minutes for Cassano to get sorted.  
  
The sorting starts with Abate, who’s sorted into Hufflepuff, accompanied with roaring applause. The house’s golden boy, third year seeker Kaká welcomes the blond boy with a warm hug and immediately starts chattering his ear off.  
  
Bonucci is the first to join Ravenclaw while Chiellini goes to Slytherin. Giampaolo tunes out the sorting after that, searching for Riccardo in the long line of first years instead, only applauding politely whenever a new kid is sorted into his own house.  
  
Riccardo doesn’t look particularly scared when his name is called. He steps forward, smiles tightly at Professor Ancelotti, who is holding the hat, and sits down slowly, waiting for the hat to be placed on his head.  
  
The silence stretches and Giampaolo finds himself hoping for _Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, please let it be Gryffindor._  
  
“Slytherin!”  
  
Giampaolo’s heart sinks. The long table on the other side of the Great Hall erupts into applause while several students around Giampaolo are jeering as Riccardo makes his way to meet his new housemates. It’s the first time Giampaolo has considered how utterly unfair the sorting can be.  
  
Riccardo takes a seat next to Andrea Pirlo, Slytherin’s fourth year prodigy (no seriously, it shouldn’t even be humanly possible for a person to be good at everything he does), who ruffles his hair playfully and says something into his ear that makes Riccardo’s face light up immediately.  
  
“Good riddance,” Cassano declares loudly just as Riccardo meets Giampaolo’s eyes over the crowd and offers him a hesitant wave. “That annoying squirt had Slytherin written all over him. Fucking snake.”  
  
The students around them laugh and Giampaolo quickly looks away from Riccardo, offering a tight smile at his friends just as Nocerino is sorted into Hufflepuff.  
  
He completely misses the way Riccardo’s face falls on the other side of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to keep writing this fic as a collection of interconnected short stories set during Pazzolivo's time at Hogwarts. The main focus will obviously be on the two of them, but other characters will be making cameo appearances as well – I've got big plans for Gattuso and Kaká in particular.
> 
> I'll end this part with an obligatory word on Cassano being in Gryffindor, because I'm sure there're people thinking he should've been in Slytherin. However, being an asshole is not only a Slytherin trait. I repeat: _being an asshole is not only a Slytherin trait!_ Slytherin are typically ambitious and cunning, and I honestly don't see much ambition in the way Cassano has thrown away his huge talent and potential over the course of his career. It's obvious his priorities have always been elsewhere.
> 
> I'm not saying he's a typical Gryffindor either, because obviously he isn't, but in my opinion it's what hits closest to home: he does things his own way, voices his opinions without thinking them through, and often acts without considering the consequences. All of this could be attributed to the Gryffindor traits: nerve, daring, and bravery bordering on recklessness. He's definitely not a model example of his house, but at the end of the day, who is? Anyways, mostly I just didn't want to go down the old "all villains are in Slytherin" route. Feel free to disagree with me, though!


	2. quidditch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to write one chapter for Riccardo's every school year, plus one chapter for after graduation — 8 chapters total. I might include some extra oneshots once I'm done with this story, but I haven't really thought about that yet.

“So who’d you think is gonna win? Heard the new Gryffindor team’s quite good.”  
  
“Are you kidding me? There’s no way anyone’s beating Hufflepuff this year, they’re far too good!”  
  
“But it’s Gattuso’s last chance to get the Quidditch Cup before he graduates—”  
  
“Doesn’t matter. Hufflepuff have Kaká and Buffon; they’re not gonna lose.”  
  
The two Ravenclaws finally notice the daggers Riccardo is glaring at them over his shoulder and snap their mouths shut. It’s at moments like this when Riccardo is actually happy to have a reputation of hexing innocent bystanders.  
  
(It had been only that one time! Not to mention it had been _Pirlo’s_ hex that hit the poor Hufflepuff girl instead of Cassano.  
  
Not that it matters when Riccardo had been the only one to get caught. Those five nights of detention with Professor Mancini are still uncomfortably fresh in his mind.)  
  
Riccardo turns his attention back to Professor Prandelli’s lesson, hurrying to finish up his notes on the freezing charm. The stupid Ravenclaws and their stupid Quidditch had distracted him for much longer than he had realized.  
  
He likes charms; during his first year, it had quickly become one of his favourite subjects. Part of it might be because Professor Prandelli – despite being the head of the Hufflepuff house – had taken an immediate liking to Riccardo and didn’t mind spending an extra moment or two explaining some of the more complicated stuff to him after class. After a while, he even started inviting Riccardo into his office for a cup of tea.  
  
Riccardo has a nagging feeling that the teacher might think him lonely – _which is not the case, thanks for asking_ – but he doesn’t mind because charms are genuinely interesting and Professor Prandelli doesn’t make him feel stupid or a burden no matter how many questions he asks. On the contrary, he actually goes the extra mile just to find new spell books Riccardo might find interesting.  
  
The chatter in the back row starts again after a while and Riccardo realizes with a start he has missed another five minutes of the class daydreaming. They are talking about Quidditch again – what a surprise – trying to guess what kind of tactics the two teams will use in tomorrow’s game.  
  
Tomorrow’s game. First game of the season. Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff.  
  
Pazzini made the team this year, Riccardo had heard from Chiellini who keeps himself (and their whole dorm room in extension) up to date with all the news and rumours regarding the Quidditch Cup. Cassano – the bastard – had been on the team the previous year as well, after one of their regulars got injured midseason.  
  
Riccardo doesn’t _dislike_ Quidditch. In fact, he thinks he might quite enjoy the game if it wasn’t for Cassano and his little crew trying to make his life miserable ever since his first day at Hogwarts. But alas, he will go down insulting the damn sport, as long as it means he will get to piss Cassano off in the process.  
  
“Mr Montolivo, are you paying attention?” Professor Prandelli’s calm voice penetrates his thoughts only belatedly and he almost pushes his books off the desk as he scrambles to find the correct page.  
  
“Good, I was starting to think my example charm missed the target and froze you instead.” Even though his tone is berating, Professor Prandelli is still smiling at him, which at least makes Riccardo feel a little better. That is until the teacher continues: “Five points from Slytherin. Next time, please save your daydreaming until after the class.”  
  
Riccardo turns to glare at the Ravenclaws behind him, even though he knows they aren’t really the ones to blame. Still, it makes him feel immensely better when he realizes Professor Prandelli isn’t quite finished yet.  
  
“Mr Bonucci, Mr Marchisio, five points each from Ravenclaw. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to talk about Quidditch _after_ Hufflepuff’s won the match.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“Aren’t you coming to the game?”  
  
Riccardo’s mind barely has time to register the voice before he has spun around, wand pointed at the person who’s dared to intrude his private spot by the lake.  
  
Pazzini is eyeing the wand warily but to his credit he doesn’t back away. He is alone, which is definitely unusual, and he is wearing his Quidditch robes, which reminds Riccardo he really shouldn’t be here bothering Riccardo when the match is supposed to start in less than fifteen minutes.  
  
Pazzini wrinkles his nose when Riccardo says nothing. “Put that away. You’re not gonna curse me just for talking to you, are you?”  
  
“Better safe than sorry. The last time I let your lot come near me, I ended up in the lake.” Riccardo adjusts his hold on the wand, his hand unwavering even though he knows Pazzini is probably right – he’s not going to use the wand against him.  
  
Pazzini has never given Riccardo a proper reason to hex him. (Not unless simply being friends with Cassano counts.) Riccardo isn’t conceited enough to think his own hurt feelings on that sorting night over a year ago would excuse such a violent reaction.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that!” Pazzini snaps, taking half a step towards Riccardo only to stop again when Riccardo’s hold on the wand tightens instinctively. His tone is much softer when he continues, “I didn’t know Cassano was gonna do that. I would’ve tried to stop him if I—”  
  
“Liar,” Riccardo retorts immediately. “You did nothing. You never do.”  
  
Those hurt feelings from a year ago are back – they never left, really – and it makes Riccardo feel like a silly kid all over again. They had barely known each other; it had been stupid of him to think Pazzini might want to be his friend after he got sorted into the rival house.  
  
“I’m sorry.” The words are barely audible, so it’s easy enough for Riccardo to convince himself he doesn’t actually hear them. However, even as his mind is busy ignoring the apology, his body is reacting on its own accord, his wand hand dropping to his side as if finally acknowledging Pazzini is not a threat.  
  
“Though to be fair, you did hex him first,” Pazzini comments, as if an afterthought, a corner of his mouth quirking into an amused half-smirk. “You know how long it took for him to regain his usual skin colour?”  
  
Riccardo is pretty sure there had been a greenish hue to Cassano’s face for a better part of a week before one of the prefects had taken pity on him and fixed the damage. Riccardo is still trying to figure out how to repay Pirlo for teaching him that particular hex.  
  
“Says a lot about his magic skills, don’t you think?” Riccardo cannot help the smile that’s tugging at his own lips. Always puts him in a good mood, thinking about Cassano’s lime green face. Riccardo had done him a favour, really: at least the colour had made his ugly face much more bearable to look at.  
  
“His or yours?”  
  
It is almost a compliment. Riccardo can feel the blush heating up his cheeks and he berates himself for letting his hopes get up so easily.  
  
He doesn’t need Pazzini to be his friend – he has plenty of friends in his own house, not to mention Pazzini and Cassano would come as a package deal, which is a burden Riccardo has no intention of carrying. Not that Cassano would agree to it in any case.  
  
“Don’t you have a match to get to?” he asks instead of acknowledging Pazzini’s question, nodding his head towards the Quidditch stadium where the announcer is already warming up the audience. Practically the whole school is in there, while they’re out here. It doesn’t make sense.  
  
“I was hoping you’d come too,” Pazzini mutters, avoiding Riccardo’s gaze, looking almost shy. “I know you’re not big on Quidditch, but it’s a huge thing and everyone’s gonna be talking about it for days—”  
  
“You’re flattering yourself,” Riccardo comments dryly, rolling his eyes. “We both know you’re gonna get your asses handed to you in five minutes flat and afterwards you’ll just wish everyone would shut up about it.”  
  
“Such a ray of sunshine you are.” To Riccardo’s surprise, Pazzini lets out an amused chuckle. “You could always use it as an excuse to make fun of Cassano?”  
  
“Just drag your ass to the stadium before they send out a search party.” The words might come out a bit harsh, but Riccardo is actually fighting to keep his face from splitting into a wide grin. Something must have shown in his face, though, because Pazzini flashes him another smile before he turns and starts jogging towards the stadium without another word.  
  
Riccardo follows him some fifteen minutes later, curiosity getting the better of him. The announcer is screaming the score line – 60-20 to Hufflepuff – excitedly listing the names of the players as the Quaffle moves from chaser to chaser— _“Aaaaand Inzaghi scores another one for Hufflepuff! Gryffindor can’t keep up at all! C’mon guys you gotta pull yourselves together before— WHAT IS GATTUSO DOING?”_  
  
Riccardo makes it up to the stands just in time to witness the Gryffindor captain placing himself between a Blunger and the Hufflepuff seeker Kaká, batting it fiercely to other direction – it ends up hitting Cassano’s broom and sending him spiralling towards the ground followed by a collective gasp from the audience.  
  
“Good one, Rino!” the Hufflepuff captain Buffon is yelling as Gattuso comes to his senses and finally realizes that no, he is not supposed to watch over his friend _while they’re playing against each other_. Nobody seems particularly surprised, though – apparently Gattuso’s over-protectiveness of Kaká is such an everyday occurrence that no one bothers to question it anymore.  
  
The match ends five minutes later when Kaká unsurprisingly catches the Snitch, finishing up the crushing score line of 270-30. Gattuso stomps off before anyone has a chance to comment on his lapse in concentration.  
  
Riccardo slips out of the stadium silently, but not quite fast enough to avoid Pazzini’s gaze locking with his over the crowd as he flies one last lap before coming down.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Nice match,” Riccardo tells Cassano later that night in the Great Hall, leaning his elbows on the backrest of Pazzini’s chair casually. “Especially loved the part where your own captain decided you were a less of a nuisance on the ground.”  
  
A couple seats down, Gattuso is attempting to murder Pirlo and Nesta with his fork, Kaká’s presence at his side apparently the only thing keeping him from drawing out his wand.  
  
Cassano obviously has no such qualms, which Riccardo takes as his cue to leave. With one last satisfied smirk to Cassano and a quick squeeze on Pazzini’s shoulder, he saunters off towards the Slytherin table.  
  
He might learn to like Quidditch, after all.  
  
  
  
  
  
(Cassano ambushes him the next morning before breakfast. Riccardo spends the day in the hospital wing and Cassano gets banned from Gryffindor’s next match. All in all, Riccardo considers it a job well done.)


	3. boggart

On most days, Gigi finds being the Head Boy more of a nuisance than anything else.  
  
On most days, his duties include attending tedious meetings with the teaching staff, cleaning up after the unjust punishments handed out by his incompetent Prefects (usually Pirlo or Nesta), breaking up fights in the corridors (more often than not initiated by Pirlo or Nesta), or hunting down students making out in broom closets after the curfew (Pirlo _and_ Nesta, nine times out of ten).  
  
On most days, Gigi thinks his life would be much easier if Professor Mancini hadn’t acted so incompetently while choosing the Prefects for his house _two years in a row_. Seriously, who the hell would think it was a good idea to give the two worst troublemakers in Slytherin the power to punish their fellow students?  
  
On most days, Gigi wonders what the point of being the Head Boy is, when most of his time is wasted on administration and managing the Prefects instead of what he’d really want to be doing: looking after the younger students.  
  
Today, however, is not like the most days.  
  
He had heard the first rumours right after the first period, and by the time lunch came around, the story had spread through the entire student body: a third year student’s boggart had taken the shape of a fellow student during DADA class.  
  
Boggarts taking the shape of people you know is nothing uncommon – Gigi’s own boggart would show him his loved ones getting hurt – but it’s always a cause for extra concern when the student in question seems to be afraid of the actual person the boggart is imitating, be it a teacher, a student, or in some cases even a family member.  
  
What makes the situation even worse in this particular case is that the students in question come from rival houses – Gryffindor and Slytherin – which of course means Gryffindor students are taking every opportunity to make fun of Slytherin, while the Slytherins keep hitting back even harder because _no one messes with one of our own and gets away with it_.  
  
Some students do voice their very understandable surprise that it was Pazzini Montolivo’s boggart took the shape of and not Cassano, who’s always seemed most hostile towards Montolivo – in fact, aside from Pirlo and Nesta, Cassano and Montolivo have probably been the ones causing most grey hairs for Gigi ever since he became Prefect in his fifth year.  
  
“I doubt it’s bullying,” Pirlo states during lunch, snatching a biscuit from Inzaghi’s plate before flopping down next to Gigi at the Hufflepuff table as if he belongs there. “Monto’s never been a victim in that petty rivalry of theirs, and as far as I know, he’s actually in more or less civil terms with Pazzini.”  
  
Gigi doesn’t know Montolivo nearly as well as Pirlo does – Gigi would’ve been an idiot not to notice all Pirlo’s signature moves in the numerous fights between Montolivo and Cassano he has interrupted – but even he can see the point in Pirlo’s assessment. Montolivo has never come across as a victim, but an active participant purposefully getting under the skins of Cassano and his little gang.  
  
“The boggart begs to differ, though,” he argues absentmindedly, mostly in attempt to keep Pirlo talking. As the Head Boy, it’s his responsibility to get to the bottom of this situation – Professor Prandelli had personally sought him out and asked him to talk to Montolivo, because apparently it might be easier for the kid to open up to another student rather than a teacher – but Gigi is more than happy to take all the help he can get.  
  
“You asking me to explain how Monto’s brain works?” Pirlo asks with a half-amused smirk. “I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t like opening up about his feelings. For all we know, he could be leading a double life as a secret superhero with Pazzini as his sworn enemy.”  
  
“But you don’t think that,” Gigi states with a roll of his eyes. “You always know what’s going on around you, don’t tell me you don’t have some idea – an educated guess – what this is all about.”  
  
“I do have some idea,” Pirlo admits with a shrug before stealing another biscuit from Inzaghi who doesn’t even bother to protest. Gigi waits for him to elaborate but the Prefect only munches on his biscuit with that infuriating smirk lingering on his face.  
  
“So, why do you think the boggart turned into Pazzini?”  
  
“Not a clue.” — Gigi groans in exasperation — “I’m pretty sure it’s not as much about the shape of the boggart as about what it said to Monto. I’d figured the shape would be a professor or maybe his parents – hell, it would’ve made more sense for the boggart to turn into _me_. Pazzini was definitely a bit of a curveball.”  
  
“So you’re saying Montolivo is afraid of— what people think of him?” Gigi asks uncertainly, not quite able to connect this information with the boy who’s always seemed so unconcerned with other people’s opinions.  
  
“Not just any people,” Pirlo corrects, his small smile looking much more sincere than just moments ago. “As far as most people are concerned, Monto couldn’t give a shit about what they think about him. But with the few people he does want to impress – hell, that boy’s terrified of being ignored.”  
  
“So he’s afraid of Pazzini hating him?” Gigi takes another guess, still frowning in confusion. Maybe Pirlo knocked his head one time too many in the broom closet.  
  
“Not caring about him, more likely.” Pirlo notices Nesta gesturing at him from the Slytherin table and starts collecting his belongings hastily. “But I’m not quite sure. As I said, the boggart taking Pazzini’s form kind of messed up my hypothesis.”  
  
Pirlo stands up and flings his bag over his shoulder. “He’s probably sulking by the lake if you want to talk to him. Don’t give him too much hell for skipping his Ancient Runes class.”  
  
It doesn’t even surprise Gigi that Pirlo knows Montolivo’s timetable. For all he knows, Pirlo has memorized the schedules of every single student in Hogwarts, just because he _can_. It sometimes infuriates him how someone as brilliant as Pirlo keeps wasting his time on ridiculous pranks.  
  
Gigi gets up from his seat with a low chuckle and a shake of his head – he earns a concerned glance from Kaká who’s sitting a few seats down – and he heads out of the Great Hall and outside towards the lake. Fortunately he has a free period after lunch, so only one of them will be skipping class.  
  
Montolivo is sitting on the rocks by the shore, his feet in the water even though the lake should be freezing cold this late in the autumn.  
  
“Trying to feed yourself to the giant squid?” Gigi asks only when he is sure the boy has noticed his presence – it wouldn’t do to startle the kid and have him fall in the water.  
  
“It doesn’t come to the shore when it’s this cloudy, it prefers the sunshine.” Montolivo pulls his feet out of the water and dries them with a flick of his wand. He keeps talking as he starts pulling on his socks and shoes, “And it doesn’t eat people, anyways. You’re not taking Care of Magical Creatures, are you?”  
  
“And you are, I suppose?” Gigi answers with a sheepish smile as he sits down on the rock next to Montolivo, who gives an affirmative hum to his question. “What’re you doing here, then? Shouldn’t you be in class?”  
  
“I was talking to the selkies,” Montolivo replies with such a straight face that Gigi isn’t quite sure whether he’s joking or not. “Well, attempting to, anyways. My Mermish is rubbish and they’re not the most social bunch to begin with.”  
  
“You’re learning Mermish?” Gigi asks carefully, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.  
  
“Attempting to.” Montolivo gives a half-shrug before he meets Gigi’s gaze squarely. “Kinda hard when we don’t have any language classes here. Can’t you do something about that, being the Head Boy and all?”  
  
“I could mention it to the Headmaster, though I doubt it’ll do any good.”  
  
Gigi is trying to come up with a good way to bring up the Pazzini situation, but in the end Montolivo saves him from the trouble and tackles the topic himself, “I’m not being bullied. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”  
  
“I figured as much,” Gigi says with a sigh of relief, but then he chuckles and corrects himself, “Well, actually it was Pirlo who told me that. His argument was very convincing.”  
  
“He did? Really?” Montolivo’s eyes are shining with something akin to _pride_ , like being psychoanalyzed by Pirlo was the greatest thing he could imagine. Suddenly Gigi isn’t surprised at all that the somewhat reserved boy in front of him is also one of the biggest nuisances in his class – obviously that’s what having idols like Pirlo does to you.  
  
“He wasn’t quite sure what your relationship with Pazzini was, though,” Gigi lets his voice trail off at the end of the sentence, hoping Montolivo would catch his meaning and reply to the unvoiced question.  
  
“I’m not so sure myself,” Montolivo offers him another half-shrug, eyebrows furrowed just slightly, his gaze now focused on a few leaves floating on the dark surface of the lake. “I wasn’t even sure what shape the boggart would take when it was my turn, and I definitely wasn’t expecting _him_.”  
  
And now Gigi has his answer. It’s not anything Montolivo said; it’s how he said it, how he bit the inside of his lip before finishing his sentence, how he’s not quite meeting Gigi’s gaze anymore.  
  
Suddenly it all makes sense to Gigi. Honestly, he should’ve realized it sooner, because what could be more terrifying for a thirteen-year-old than _first love_ , especially when combined with the uncertainty of not knowing the other person’s feelings.  
  
Gigi wonders idly whether he should tell Pirlo that he figured out the missing piece of his puzzle before he realizes the conversation with Montolivo is far from over.  
  
“Have you talked to Pazzini yet?” Gigi asks instead of voicing his thoughts, because some things should be figured out on your own. “I’m sure he’d like to know you’re not scared shitless of him unlike most of the student population seem to think.”  
  
“We’re not _friends_ , you know?” Now there’s obvious tilt of bitterness in Montolivo’s voice. “It’s not like I can just walk up to him in the middle of the Great Hall, in front of all his friends. Especially not while everyone’s so busy making fun of me at every turn I take.”  
  
“Do you want to be? Friends with him, I mean,” Gigi pushes on, brushing his hand against Montolivo’s arm reassuringly, wordlessly reminding him that Gigi is not there to make fun of him or his feelings for Pazzini.  
  
“I— don’t know?” Montolivo’s eyes are pleading now, like asking Gigi for help. “I used to. He was the first person I met when I came to Hogwarts. But that was long time ago, before I was sorted into Slytherin.”  
  
“Well, obviously his opinion still matters to you,” Gigi states slowly, holding Montolivo’s gaze, “and Hogwarts houses mean very little, unless you let them affect your judgement. Do you want something as ridiculous as house rivalry to affect you?”  
  
“Of course not!” Montolivo huffs out, anger and frustration just barely audible in his voice even though Gigi knows they must be there. “It was never about the houses for me. But what can I do when it so obviously matters to _him_?”  
  
“I don’t know Pazzini that well,” Gigi admits calmly – an understatement, really, as Gigi actually doesn’t know Pazzini at all – “but I haven’t heard him make one joke about you today. I didn’t even see him at lunch. And I can’t remember him ever using his wand against you even when the rest of his gang was fighting yours.”  
  
“He never has,” Montolivo admits after a moment of hesitation.  
  
“So what makes you think he’d be so opposed to actually being friends with you?”  
  
Montolivo has no time to consider his answer before their talk is interrupted by a third party: “I’m not!”  
  
Gigi lets out a surprised laugh and turns his gaze from Montolivo’s stunned face towards Pazzini, who is standing just a few feet from them, having obviously just stepped out of the bushes lining this part of the shore. “You do know that eavesdropping is considered impolite, don’t you, Pazzini?”  
  
Pazzini blushes and avoids both their gazes as he mumbles, “Sorry, didn’t wanna interrupt…”  
  
“And yet you still did.” Gigi stands up as he speaks, brushing dirt off his robes carefully. “I believe you had something you wanted to say to Montolivo here? I’ll leave you to it, then.”  
  
Some things need to be figured out on your own. Gigi’s only job was to get the two talking – the rest is up to them. (Except if they fall back to their old habits, of course. Because if there’s one thing Gigi hates, it’s young love going to waste.)  
  
“Oh, and I’m afraid I’ll have to take twenty points from each of you for skipping class,” Gigi adds as an afterthought when he’s already walked past Pazzini. “But I’ll let your Professors know you weren’t feeling well and I gave you the permission to stay at your dorms for the rest of the day. Just stay out of their sight, okay?”  
  
He gives himself a mental pat on the back as he walks back to the castle. Really, there should be an additional line under his name on the list of Hogwarts Head Boys in the trophy room: _Gianluigi Buffon, Warrior of Love_.  
  
  
  
  
  
(Gigi catches Pirlo and Nesta making out in the broom closet that night. He lets them off easy for once, all the while wondering how long it’s going to take before he finds Montolivo and Pazzini in that same closet.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, Monto’s greatest fear is not being rejected by Pazzo or anything as simple as that. It’s more of an abstract fear of being invisible, unwanted, or unnecessary to the people that he wants to impress and/or cares about. At this point this fear just manifests itself the best in Pazzo, since Monto wants his attention over anyone else but at the same time doesn’t know if he even _sees_ him.
> 
>  
> 
> I’ve always found it weird that Hogwarts doesn’t teach foreign languages or the languages of other magical creatures such as merpeople or goblins, since it would be so much easier for young witches and wizards to learn new languages as opposed to learning them only after they graduate from Hogwarts. They don’t seem to have interpreting spells either, at least judging from the GoF where even the foreign students had to communicate in English.
> 
>  
> 
> Pirlo and Nesta wreaking havoc all over the place is canon – just read Pirlo’s autobiography if you want to know more about this.


	4. house pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's back! *docks flying objects*
> 
> Milan made it to the Europa League. Pazzo is coming back to Serie A next season. I'm finally getting used to working full time. Life's good. (Or something.)

Giampaolo is a proud Gryffindor.

He remembers being ecstatic when Gryffindor won the House Cup in his first year at Hogwarts. He carries the house colours proudly every time he marches onto the Quidditch pitch with his teammates and flies off to defend the house honour – he didn’t lose faith even after they came dead last at the end of his third school year, his first on the team.

His greatest hero – just like virtually every other Gryffindor’s – is Paolo Maldini, a fellow Gryffindor and the youngest Head Auror in the history of the department. Giampaolo actually has a photo of himself, Cassano and Maldini from the time when a bunch of Hogwarts alumni came to visit the school during his second year.

Lately he has noticed that curiously enough, the photo-Giampaolo looks like he’s trying to pull as far away from Cassano as possible.

He even told Professor Ancelotti during the career counselling that he was going to become an auror, just like Maldini. Ancelotti had raised one massive eyebrow at him – impressed or disbelieving, Giampaolo still isn’t quite sure – and told him it was going to be one hell of a path to follow.

When he disclosed his career plans in the Gryffindor common room later that same day, Cassano had laughed in his face, claiming Giampaolo would never pass his Potions O.W.L with high enough grade to take Mancini’s N.E.W.T level classes.

On the other hand, when Giampaolo mentioned this to Riccardo in passing — “Wouldn’t it be cool to be an auror though? Too bad I suck at Potions…” — the young Slytherin immediately swore to tutor Giampaolo all the way up to his O.W.L.s.

As it turns out, Riccardo is actually terrible at Potions, but his pure determination has been enough to keep Giampaolo from giving up on his studies.

There are moments – and these moments have been increasing dramatically ever since the beginning of his fifth school year – Giampaolo finds himself wishing he could spend all his time with Riccardo instead of the guys in his dormitory and Cassano in particular. Because being a proud Gryffindor is one thing, but being an ass to everyone else is completely different.

But house pride also equals house rivalries – being a Gryffindor essentially means being brave, rash, and extremely loyal to your friends, but it also means you’re supposed to hate Slytherins with everything you got. So Giampaolo usually just goes along with it, because that’s what everyone else does.

And really, it’s not like he’s in any position to interfere when seventh year Gryffindors march down the corridors in big groups, poking fun at first year Slytherins, because that’s how things have always been: Gryffindors stand by their own; it’s up to the Slytherins to take care of theirs (and they most certainly do).

 

 

  
“Any luck with the selkies?” Giampaolo plops down next to Riccardo, dropping his too heavy backpack – full of extra reading for his O.W.L preparation classes – on the ground and peering into the blue waters, the sunlight reflecting off the ripples so bright it’s almost blinding.

“I think the sun might burn their skin if they stay in shallow waters for too long,” Riccardo muses out loud as he turns his attention from the obviously selkie-less waters towards Giampaolo. He’s sitting cross-legged on the same rocks where Giampaolo found him talking to Buffon what feels like a lifetime ago. “The giant squid’s been popping up for some sunbathing though – I heard a few first-years screaming when they saw her.”

By now, Giampaolo is mostly accustomed to Riccardo’s odd fascination with everything underwater – and it’s not even that odd, once you find out his mother is actually one of the leading European scholars on merfolk languages and customs. Based on what Riccardo has told Giampaolo, it seems like he spent most of his childhood on one boat or another.

“So, how was Transfigurations? Think you’re ready for the O.W.L.s next week?” Riccardo asks curiously as he gets up from the rocks and heads for the shade of a large oak tree nearby. Giampaolo follows suit, dragging his backpack along on the ground, not caring if the parchments inside get damaged.

“Don’t mention the fucking O.W.Ls,” he whines instead of actually answering the question. He has no intention of revealing to Riccardo ‘knows-every-damn-O.W.L-spell-one-year-too-early’ Montolivo he’s been having some unexpected trouble with vanishing spells as the exams draw near. It’s only the nerves getting to him, anyways – back in the winter he could vanish a whole litter of kittens without problem!

“It can’t be that bad, it’s not like they’re gonna ask anything you haven’t covered in class, right?” Riccardo’s words might sound innocent if the corners of his mouth weren’t twitching in obvious attempt to hold his smirk. Giampaolo can’t wait to see him stressing over his own O.W.L.s come next year.

Riccardo digs out his DADA textbook and leans back against the tree with a half-suppressed yawn, looking far too comfortable for someone supposed to be studying unforgiveable curses. Giampaolo gives up glaring and settles down next to him, digging through his backpack for the revision notes he had so painstakingly written over the Christmas Holidays and worked so hard to keep up-to-date ever since. His mom had been so proud of him when she had witnessed him actually studying, he’d hate to disappoint her with his grades even if she can’t actually understand any of it.

They study in silence for a long while, not even glancing at each other. This is one of their two secret spots, where they can just relax and forget about the house rivalries for a bit.

(The other one is the forgotten corner in the library near the History books they had claimed as their own back when it was too cold to study outside.)

Not that Riccardo cares about such rivalries, unless talking about his personal vendetta with Cassano, which really has nothing to do with Hogwarts houses and everything to do with both of them being little shitheads (as Pirlo calls it whenever he actually bothers to take care of his prefectual duties instead of simply whispering new hexes into Riccardo’s ear in the midst of a duel).

Sometimes Giampaolo wonders how he ended up in the middle of it all, when all he wanted was to learn magic and enjoy his school years in peace.

He’s just done revising the general theory on antidotes when there is sudden weight on his shoulder and a quiet snore in his ear. When he glances to the side he confirms what he already knew: Riccardo is fast asleep, the forgotten book still open in his lap, the legislative jargon on unforgiveable curses conspicuously void of the tiny handwritten notes Giampaolo has learned to associate with all of Riccardo’s textbooks.

Riccardo shifts in his sleep, looking for a more comfortable position, until his upper body is fully pressed up against Giampaolo’s. Giampaolo snatches the textbook from his lap just before it falls, marking the page and slipping it back into Riccardo’s bag carefully.

He tries to focus on Potions again – he’s going to get that damn E even if it kills him – but it’s hard when Riccardo is snuggled so comfortably against him, snoring softly and drooling on his shoulder. He’s going to be so embarrassed when he wakes up – and probably pissed off at Giampaolo for not waking him up before he made a fool of himself.

It’s with this thought that Giampaolo finally drops his notes and focuses his full attention on Riccardo. He lifts his hand to wipe away the barely visible drool stain from his robes, keeping his movements deliberately slow in fear of rousing Riccardo. His friend only lets out a cute little grumble before continuing his nap as soon as his designated pillow stops moving again.

When Riccardo is like this, it’s so easy to forget he’s memorized a hex arsenal that would put your average dark wizard to shame. Typical Slytherin, Cassano would say, and Giampaolo is torn between agreeing wholeheartedly and arguing vehemently.

Riccardo’s lips are surprisingly soft when Giampaolo wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He suddenly remembers the first time he saw him, prettier than any girl on the platform 9¾, and realizes nothing has really changed since then. Sure, Riccardo has grown to almost match Giampaolo in height and he’s lost all of the baby fat from his cheeks, but to Giampaolo, this 15-year-old Riccardo under the large oak tree in Hogwarts yard is just as pretty as the 11-year-old on the platform back in King’s Cross, if not more so.

(Does it count as a crush if it’s been there bubbling under the surface for almost four years and counting?)

“Is there something on my face?” Riccardo mumbles and sticks his tongue out to lick Giampaolo’s thumb playfully. His doesn’t even bother to lift his head from his shoulder, eyes still firmly closed, but the corners of his lips are upturned in obvious amusement.

Giampaolo jerks his hand back, only now realizing he had let his thumb linger on Riccardo’s lips for much longer than intended. “You were drooling, you puffskein.”

“Puffskeins are cute; I’d go for another word if you really wanted to insult me.” Riccardo finally opens his eyes and looks up at Giampaolo challengingly, obviously wide awake. He probably woke up a while ago, while Giampaolo was busy contemplating his newly discovered romantic feelings. “Call me a Cassano and you’ll mortally wound me.”

“Nah, I think puffskein is quite fitting.” Giampaolo really tries to sound casual as he says it, glancing at his wristwatch in what he hopes comes across as nonchalant gesture. At least to his own ears, he just sounds embarrassingly smitten. “Cute and cuddly on the outside, but really quite disgusting when you stop and think about it.”

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment then.” Riccardo finally sits up – Giampaolo immediately misses the comfortable weight on his shoulder – and stretches his limbs with a loud moan that would probably take Giampaolo’s mind down the gutter if it wasn’t for the ugly cracking noise his joins are making in the process.

“So disgusting,” Giampaolo grumbles as Riccardo returns to his original position with his back against the tree, their shoulders brushing momentarily. Riccardo sticks his tongue out in response.

“It’s almost dinner time. Wanna meet up afterwards in the library? I could use your help with Charms.” Giampaolo stuffs the notes back into his overflowing backpack, pointedly not looking at Riccardo because he knows his face must be glowing red. The silly hopefulness in his voice is embarrassing enough without the visual proof.

“Only if you help me with my Potions essay,” Riccardo counters with a smile as he accepts Giampaolo’s offered hand and lets him pull him up.

Riccardo hangs back as Giampaolo walks through the castle doors, leaving just enough space between them to create an illusion they’re not arriving together. Giampaolo is so used to the secrecy by now that he usually doesn’t even stop to think how strange it is. This is how their friendship has worked from the start, no need to change a working pattern, right?

Except Giampaolo really wants to walk in together with Riccardo, have dinner together with him, and then go to library together to finish their homework together. Because that’s what best friends do, and they _are_ best friends, aren’t they?

Giampaolo practically crashes into a seventh-year Slytherin as he walks through the Great Hall doors, causing the older student to drop the pile of N.E.W.T textbooks he was carrying. “Watch it, mudblood!”

Giampaolo barely has time to realize the severity of the insult the student just threw at him – the whole blood purity thing has lost a huge chunk of its impact since the last wizarding war and to Giampaolo, who didn’t grow up in the wizarding world, the word actually sounds more stupid than insulting – before Riccardo is standing between them, practically seething at his housemate’s face.

“Care to repeat that?” Riccardo’s voice is no louder than a whisper, and Giampaolo is fairly sure he shouldn’t be able to appear so menacing when the top of his head barely reaches the other guy’s nose. Although the tip of Riccardo’s wand _is_ pressed against the seventh-year’s throat, which does even the odds out quite a bit.

The Slytherin doesn’t seem to realize the danger he’s in yet. “C’mon Montolivo, it was that Gryffindor idiot who—”

“I’d choose my next words carefully, Materazzi,” Riccardo hisses and a few red sparks shoot off his wand as if in warning. “You already ruined my great mood; you don’t wanna push your luck when I could blow your head off without even breaking a sweat.”

Now Materazzi does look alarmed. He’s glancing between Riccardo and the staff table in the other end of the Great Hall. Apparently none of the teachers have noticed the skirmish yet. “I didn’t mean it, okay? Geez, what the fuck happened to ‘Slytherins take care of their own’?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” Riccardo lowers his wand slowly and steps back to allow Materazzi to collect his books. Giampaolo notices he doesn’t relax his hold on his wand yet, though, like expecting retaliation at any moment. “You better keep your mediaeval views to yourself from now on, unless you wanna spend the rest of the semester petrified in some broom closet.”

Giampaolo catches a muttered “Fucking blood traitor!” from Materazzi before he rushes away from them, cursing under his breath. Ironically enough, Riccardo doesn’t seem to pay any mind to him now that his insults aren’t directed at Giampaolo anymore.

“We better stay in the library until closing time tonight,” Riccardo notes with a humourless chuckle, “He’s gonna try and gang up on me with his cronies the moment I step foot into the common room.”

“I’d offer refuge in Gryffindor tower but I’m not sure facing Cassano is any better option.” Giampaolo tries to keep his tone nonchalant, but it’s damn hard when his brain is hopelessly fixated on the fact that Riccardo considers him _his own_. Not fellow Slytherins, _him_.

“Speaking of Cassano, you might have some explaining to do…” Riccardo nods pointedly towards the Gryffindor table where Giampaolo’s dorm mates are openly staring at them.

Why should house pride equal hiding behind the banner colours?

“I’d much rather have dinner with you, if you don’t mind.”

Giampaolo doesn’t remember ever seeing Riccardo smiling as brightly as he does when Giampaolo follows him to the Slytherin table. It’s worth every single glare and interrogation he will be subjected to in the coming days and much, much more.

 

 

  
(Materazzi is discovered in the fourth floor broom closet a few days later with the lock and handle melted into one chunk of scorched metal. No one is quite sure how long he has been stuck there or who was behind it, not even Materazzi himself.

Giampaolo makes a mental note never to give Riccardo any reason to think of him as his enemy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- [This is a Puffskein. Please note the lovely bogey-eating part.](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Puffskein)  
> \- I’m well aware I’m too much of a Slytherin to write believable Gryffindors. Bear with me?  
> \- I hereby authorize you to kick my ass if it takes me as long to write the next chapter as this one.


	5. prefect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. Life happened. Adulting is hard.

 

 

King’s Cross is crowded even before Riccardo makes it through to the Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

The late heat wave washing over the UK is apparently causing a mass migration of muggles toward the coastal areas in search of cooling breeze. Not for the first time Riccardo wonders how the muggles can survive summers without cooling charms – he makes a mental note to ask Giampaolo about it later, before he remembers he’s presently not talking to Giampaolo.

A muggle kid runs into him, making him stumble and the owl cage on top of his trunk almost falls off. Nugget screeches her immediate objection to his clumsiness and in turn Riccardo aims his most menacing glare toward the kid – which, to be honest, is not nearly as menacing as the one his owl just gave him.

“What’s where you’re going, brat!”

The kid is staring at Nugget in bafflement, as if it’s the first time he’s seen a barn owl – not true, as Riccardo happens to know barn owls are one of the most common owl species, often encountered also in the muggle world – but then he turns to Riccardo and sneers, “Freak!” and disappears into the crowd.

Maybe he had that one coming, dressed in his school robes and all.

At least his parents finally gave up on walking him all the way to the platform, Riccardo thinks as he starts pushing the trolley toward the hidden gateway, not bothering to check if someone is looking in his direction as he slips through the barrier. If the muggles have never paid any attention to a bunch of terrified first-years _running_ through the barrier year after year, he should be covered.

He passes a group of Ravenclaw students from his year, not even bothering to return the greeting Bonucci yells after him. Damn know-it-all with his shiny prefect badge that he’s probably kept polishing throughout the holidays.

He pushes his way all the way to the Hogwarts Express without meeting anyone’s eyes – there’s a moment when he thinks he might have seen a very tanned Giampaolo waving at him, but he turns away before his body does something stupid like waves back – and climbs into a carriage that looks relatively empty.

He flicks his wand and his trunk and Nugget’s cage follow him quietly into the first compartment he finds. Technically they’re not supposed to use magic outside of Hogwarts, but no one really bothers with the rules while travelling on magic red train through the country. Have fun trying to trace that.

“Get lost,” Riccardo says in a deadpan tone to the small group of Gryffindor second-years that have already claimed the compartment as their own. He doesn’t even bother lifting his wand at the pipsqueaks – was he really this tiny only three years ago? – trusting his reputation is more than enough to scare them away.

He’s of course right, and the kids stumble out of his way without a word, dragging their massive trunks with them. Riccardo doesn’t spare them another glance, just levitates his own luggage right in and sets Nugget free from her cage.

“Stop that, I don’t have anything for you,” he grumbles to the owl when she goes right for his pockets looking for treats. Spoiled little bastard, Riccardo should put her on a diet. Nugget ruffles her feathers indignantly in response, looking down at Riccardo like he’s the bane of all her suffering. (She’s not completely wrong.)

“Fine, be like that!” Riccardo scoffs when the bird takes a flight and soars right out of the compartment, probably in search of someone gullible enough to share their lunch with her.

Riccardo points his wand at the door and hisses a spell, making the door bang itself closed. He puts the wand away satisfied when he can hear the lock clicking. There, maybe now people will leave him to sulk in peace.

(Usually Riccardo wouldn’t admit to something as childish as sulking, but what can he say, there always comes a line in self-pity where you can’t hide behind denial anymore.)

Chiellini walks past his compartment, clad in his brand-new robes and prefect badge fastened to his chest. He’s surrounded by a bunch of their classmates from Slytherin and they’re all laughing loudly at something.

He raises his eyebrows at Riccardo when he notices the death glare he’s being given through the compartment window. For a second, he seems torn between opening the door and talking to Riccardo or just continuing his way along the corridor, but in the end Riccardo makes the decision for him by waving his wand again and closing the curtains angrily.

Rationally thinking, Riccardo knows he shouldn’t blame Chiellini for having been chosen as the prefect for Slytherin house instead of him, as it’s the head of house who makes the decisions. But rationality weighs very little when he’s been flaunting the damn badge at Riccardo since they happened to run into each other on Diagon Alley a week ago.

The thought of Diagon Alley makes his mood even worse because that makes him think about Giampaolo who, unlike Chiellini, didn’t show up. What’s the point of having a best-friend-that-maybe-perhaps-could-be-something-more-if-they-really-tried if he stands you up right when you really, really, _really_ need someone to have your back?

Stupid Giampaolo and his stupid Quidditch Captain badge.

Riccardo entertains the thought of stealing all the badges in Hogwarts and hiding them in the den of the giant squid – she wouldn’t mind, she’s a bit of a hoarder by nature – as the train starts moving, leaving London behind.

“You know, you should really keep a closer eye on Nugget,” Giampaolo informs him as he walks in, the said owl safely snuggled in his arms, munching something that might be a chocolate frog, the fatty. “Found her terrorising some poor first-years a few compartments down.”

Riccardo presses his lips tightly together, determined not to say anything that he might regret later. Something like “ _I missed you_ ” doesn’t really cut it when you’re supposed to be full of justified rage.

Giampaolo waits for his response for a few seconds but continues when it becomes obvious Riccardo has no intention of answering: “You should also learn a locking spell that can’t be _alohomora_ -ed if you really want to avoid people. You know all of us learnt it in the first grade.”

Riccardo _knows_ a spell like that, thanks for asking. He just— forgot for a second there. (Or maybe he was secretly hoping Giampaolo would come look for him. Very secretly.)

Nugget hoots happily from Giampaolo’s arms, showing no signs of wanting to move back to her owner. Traitor.

“You could also teach the damn owl to wait until I write a reply,” Giampaolo continues his monologue. He is leaning on the compartment door, safely locked again, not showing any interest in sitting down before he gets a response. “You do remember my parents are muggles, right? I don’t have any ways of communicating with our world when I’m at home. Why do wizards hate phones so much, anyways?”

“It was a howler. You’re not supposed to answer those.” Riccardo avoids Giampaolo’s gaze despite being unable to keep his mouth shut any longer.

“Oh yeah, that. You know I got an official warning for unauthorized use of magic for that thing? You’d think the trace could differentiate between active and passive magic, huh?”

Okay, so Riccardo does feel a bit sorry about that. But not enough to apologize.

“Your fault for standing me up,” he grumbles and turns to stare out of the window. “I guess you were too busy admiring that shiny new badge of yours to come and meet me.”

“I didn’t— Wait a second. Is that what this is about? You’re jealous because I got picked for something and you didn’t get that precious prefect badge!” Gone is the amused albeit forced nonchalance Giampaolo had been going for earlier. Now he’s finally angry, which is what Riccardo had been expecting from the start. “Newsflash, there was never a chance for you because _nobody likes you_ and you’re not even trying to fix that.”

There’s a sinking feeling in Riccardo’s stomach. This is what he had wanted, right? Hurt Giampaolo like he had hurt Riccardo by not meeting him at Diagon Alley. Now it feels like the last thing Riccardo actually wants.

They have never argued before, not for real.

“Gee, I’m so happy that’s established now. Now you can get out and stop bothering me since I’m so unlikeable.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that, idiot!”

Nugget struggles her way out of Giampaolo’s hold now and flies up to the luggage rack where their yelling doesn’t hurt her ladylike sensibilities.

“So now I’m an idiot too?” Riccardo has jumped up from his seat, finally facing Giampaolo properly. “Mind I remind you I’m the only reason you’re allowed to take N.E.W.T charms this year!”

“You’re also the reason I’m treated like a pariah in my own house!” Giampaolo fires back and Riccardo can feel tears burning his eyes even if they’re not falling yet.

“That’s not fair and you know it,” he chokes out, “I’m the one who had to put up protective charms around my bed until the end of last school year because I was too terrified to go to sleep otherwise.”

Giampaolo is finally silent. Riccardo takes this chance to take a deep breath and try to swallow back the sobs that are practically choking him.

“You never told me that,” Giampaolo finally says, all the fight gone from his voice as soon as it appeared.

“Of course I didn’t, because you would’ve just blamed yourself for my stupidity. Again.”

Riccardo falls back to his seat. He keeps his eyes closed because he knows he will cry if he looks at Giampaolo again.

He had made his choice – Giampaolo over Slytherin – and until now it never occurred to him that maybe he should’ve chosen differently. Without Giampaolo messing up his plans, he could now be a prefect, well on his way to becoming the first Head Boy chosen from Slytherin house in the last fifteen years. Even Pirlo couldn’t do that. Instead, he’s left with nothing but a house that hates/fears him and Giampaolo who— what exactly?

The seat dibs a little under Giampaolo’s weight as he sits down next to him.

“My train to London was delayed due to an accident,” Giampaolo says quietly. Riccardo sniffles a little but doesn’t interrupt him. “I couldn’t contact you because you don’t have a phone. By the time I got to the Leaky Cauldron, you were long gone.”

“You could’ve sent me an owl from there,” Riccardo grumbles, but accepts the handkerchief Giampaolo offers him without a complaint.

“I know. Sorry. I just figured you’d send Nugget over with an angry letter and then I could just reply. I swear she’s the only owl in all of UK that doesn’t hate my guts.”

Riccardo blows his nose and then cleans the handkerchief with a flick on his wand before handing it back to Giampaolo. “She might’ve changed her mind about that by now.”

Giampaolo chuckles and they both glance at the owl in question, perched on the luggage rack like a queen on her throne. She hoots down at them regally, obviously thinking herself above their teenage squabbles.

“You’re not unlikeable,” Giampaolo says softly, leaning toward Riccardo so that their shoulders are brushing. “I mean, you are. But I like you anyways.”

Riccardo could swear his heart skips a beat when he finally hears the words. He’s known since last spring – or at least suspected – that his feelings for Giampaolo aren’t as one-sided as he first thought. But it’s different to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

“Say that again?” Riccardo requests, glancing at Giampaolo whose cheeks are now flushed bright red – quite a feat considering he really is super tanned from his holiday in Italy.

“I like you,” Giampaolo mumbles. His both hands are balled in fists, gripping the fabric of his black robes. Then he visibly relaxes, as if saying it aloud made it easier to admit, and repeats more loudly, “I like you, you stupid puffskein.”

Riccardo acts before his better judgement sweeps in and makes him doubt himself again. He reaches for Giampaolo’s face and tips his chin down so their faces are on the same level and presses a quick kiss on his lips. Their noses bump together in the process, but as far as first kisses go, he doesn’t think it’s half bad.

“Do I need to say it or was that clear enough?” Riccardo asks with a small smile. Their faces are still too close to read Giampaolo’s expressions, but he’s not pulling back and Riccardo can feel the corners of his lips quirking upwards.

Of course, Nugget decides that’s the perfect moment to fly down and demand attention (and treats, never forget the treats) by pushing her way between them and screeching indignantly when she doesn’t find anything in their pockets.

“Told you, now even she hates your guts.” Riccardo makes a show of shuffling through his bag until he finds the owl treats he stashed there before he left home. Nugget happily digs in, forgetting her human servants for the time being.

An uncomfortable silence falls between them, because now that they’re actually supposed to talk about their feelings, neither of them is quite sure what to say.

“Was that prefect’s badge really that important to you?” Giampaolo finally asks, although he seems almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Nah, it’s not like it’s required of me to be a prefect to become the Head Boy.” Riccardo grabs for Giampaolo’s hand and takes a fast hold of it to make sure he’s not going anywhere. That had really been his biggest fear when he came to the station this morning. “I was kind of hoping for the bathroom rights, though.”

“I can sneak you in if you ask nicely,” Giampaolo promises and then he blushes brightly again as he realizes what he’s insinuating. He doesn’t go back on his words though, which makes Riccardo feel oddly warm all over.

“You’re so tanned, I almost didn’t recognize you,” Riccardo tells him instead of commenting on the slip-up. He brushes a kiss against Giampaolo’s cheek that still feels hot under his lips.

“And you’re as pale as ever. Weren’t you supposed to spend the whole summer somewhere in the Caribbean?”

“I did.” Riccardo twists Giampaolo’s hand in his own until their fingers are interlocked, Giampaolo’s dark tan looking even darker in contrast to Riccardo’s pale fingers. “My mom’s boat has this protective magic screen that keeps the sun from burning us. Apparently skin cancer is too much of extra hassle, even if it’s easily curable with magic.”

“Seriously, you’ve spent the whole summer in a _magic boat_ practicing who knows what dark hexes and I’m the one who gets an official warning for a howler _you_ sent me!”

Giampaolo pulls his hand out of Riccardo’s, but before Riccardo can protest, he wraps his arm around his shoulders instead, pulling him in until Riccardo is practically draped against his side. Riccardo is definitely not complaining.

“So, did you get to talk to the Caribbean sirens?”

“I met one, but her dialect was so thick I had no idea what she was trying to say. Selkie Mermish is much easier.”

The rest of the train ride goes by quickly as they exchange stories and compare notes on Caribbean and Mediterranean, interrupted every once in a while by Nugget who doesn’t react well to being ignored.

 

 

 

 

 

Riccardo keeps a hold of Giampaolo’s hand even as they exit the Hogwarts Express. Most of the students pay them no mind aside from steering clear from Riccardo in fear of getting hexed without warning. That rumour really is too old to still warrant such a reaction.

He can hear Cassano’s obnoxiously loud voice before he can see him. He’s walking a few steps ahead of them, complaining loudly that he should’ve been made the Gryffindor captain instead of “that traitorous faggot.”

Riccardo can feel Giampaolo tensing up at the words, but instead of letting go of Riccardo’s hand he tightens his hold instinctively, probably to keep him from doing anything stupid.

“I got this,” Riccardo whispers to him with a mischievous smile before he raises his voice over the chatter around them, “Hey Giampi, what’s your price for kicking Cassano’s fat ass off the team?”

That shuts Cassano up nicely and even pulls a surprised laugh out of Giampaolo.

“I think we can come up with something.” The words are spoken softly, meant only for Riccardo’s ears, but the kiss Giampaolo presses on his lips after is very much meant for the people around them to see.

For the first time, Riccardo really feels like Giampaolo is genuinely choosing him over everyone else.

 

 


End file.
